Not Your Mother
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: A random little oneshot, sprouting from my fic, Cotton Candy Baby. A peek at House and the kid. No slash. Please read and review.


A/N: This is a plot bunny that sprung from the plot of my unfinished WIP, **Cotton Candy Baby**. Obviously, this is a few years into the future.

No slash intended. Please read and review.

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_Not Your Mother_

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"Hi."

"Hi."

He stretched his cane out to pull the door shut, and she smiled. He had known she would. She had already buckled herself in, and she popped the glove compartment open to retrieve the too-big sunglasses he kept for her. He didn't know how she kept them from slipping off her nose, but when she squared her shades on his, he knew she was ready to cruise.

"So what's up?" he asked, as they left the school behind.

"We're having a party on Friday," she said, the breeze kissing her almond wisps. "It's because Sunday is Mommy's Day."

His expressive blues stayed hidden behind the black lenses. Mother's Day. He had known they'd have to face it eventually. He didn't know where to start. He could remember being five years old; his mother had been his favorite person in the world.

"So are all the mommies supposed to go?" he asked, wishing Wilson were here. Wilson was a hell of a lot better at difficult conversations.

"Yeah."

"Well – I bet we could get Cameron to show up for you. Who knows – maybe even Cuddy."

"Allison can bring cookies," she said, because that was rather important to her. "Aunt Lisa could wear those shoes I like, you know, the pink ones with the – the big flowers."

He didn't say anything, much more troubled by the prospect of her school's Mom's Day than she would ever think of being.

"Does it bother you?" he asked, after three minutes.

"What?"

"Not having a mommy to be there."

She pursed her lips, not unlike Wilson might, and thought.

"No," she said finally. "Well, well sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. I mean, sometimes I wish I had a mommy, like when Hannah talks about how her mommy taught her how to put the sprinkles on her ice cream just right so that there's not too many, or when Pam said that her mommy is going to take her up to Phil... Phil, uh..."

"Philadelphia?"

"Yeah, and they're going to spend the whole day together. Kelly's mom braids her hair real nice, and I know Daddy braids my hair when I ask him to, but I don't think he likes it like Kelly's mom. Even though he's pretty good at it."

House wanted to smile, but he was listening too attentively.

"Does it ever make you – _sad_?" he asked.

She waited for a moment, her lips twisting, before admitting that yes, sometimes it did. House didn't speak again. What could he do? Her mother was long gone, schmoozing with that guy she'd run off with God knows where. Wilson could always get hitched again, but probably not any time in the next two days.

"Uncle Greg?"

"Yeah."

"Can we make cupcakes when we get home? The pink kind?"

"Uh – we can if we've got the mix, I guess."

She bounced her legs, quiet with satisfaction, but he was far from rest.

It made her sad. Shit. She wasn't supposed to be sad. She was five years old. Life wasn't supposed to start sucking for at least another couple years. It made her sad. Shit.

"Uncle Greg?"

"Yeah."

"What's frosting made out of?"

"Weird stuff that most people can't pronounce."

"Is it the stuff that – that gives people cancer?"

"You'll have to ask your Daddy about that."

What a way to get Wilson to explain his job. House almost snickered.

"Uncle Greg?"

"Yeah."

"What does – pwo-pwonous mean?"

Lord. It was times like these when he was insurmountably grateful that Wilson was Daddy and not him.

"Pronounce – it means how you say a word."

"Oh."

The corvette pulled smoothly up onto the curb in front of his apartment building, his bike lingering near the stoop. She freed herself from her seatbelt and folded the sunglasses up to return them to the glove compartment. He swung his door open and set his cane out on the cement, along with one leg.

"Uncle Greg?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Will you come to the party for me?"

He peered over his shoulder at her, and she couldn't see his eyes through the sunglasses, which she didn't like. She would have pulled them off, like she did sometimes, but she felt that it wouldn't be okay to do that now. She waited patiently instead for his answer, her familiar eyes expectant.

"I'm not a mommy. I'm not sure your teacher would like it if I came."

"Yes, she would!" the little girl cried, in one of those rare moments in which she sounded her age. "It's okay, you could come because I don't have a real mommy, you could come because you stay with me and Daddy and it would be fine!"

She had climbed up on her knees and leaned over to rest her hands on his arm.

"Please?"

He suppressed a sigh. "What about Cameron? Or Cuddy? I thought you wanted the cookies and the pretty shoes."

"They can come if they want to," she said. "But I want you. _We _can make cookies before the party, and you could wear your jacket because it's cool."

He came close to smiling this time.

"Please?"

He kept her waiting, and she almost shook his arm. He pulled his shades down and peered over them, but he was too good at making his eyes blank. She didn't like it when he did that either.

"Okay," he said.

She broke out into a toothy smile.

"But you know what I do to annoying little kids," he warned.

"You whack 'em," she smirked. She _loved_ his cane. It was her favorite part about him, and she had told him so before. It had meant more to him than he could have anticipated.

"And I don't say sorry."

"That's okay." She knew that Daddy was the type of person who said sorry for things, and Uncle Greg was the type of person who only said it a few times, when it was important. It was one of the many differences between the two most important people in her life, and she had simply learned those differences and sunk into a comfortable routine of accommodating both men.

He pushed himself up and out of the car, shut the door, and waited on the sidewalk for her. Wilson catered to her more, always whining that she was just a little girl and that House should do more for her, but the elder man liked the idea of instilling an early self-sufficiency in her. Sure enough, she hopped out of the car with her bag and shut the door with less gusto than he had, while he watched her and the road. They started the short walk toward the apartment stoop, and she took her place on his left side, having learned from the early days of her walking career that his left side was the place to be if she wanted to stay close and not get in the way of his cane. She hadn't picked up on her father's ability to mirror Uncle Greg's steps, but he figured it was cool if that was solely Wilson's thing.

"Will you wear the red shirt? I like that one," she said.

"You like all my shirts."

"But I really like that one."

"Okay. I'll wear the red one."

"With a tie?"

"Pssh. No way. Ties and t-shirts are modern punk rock, which is so not cool. Besides, ties are your dad's trend."

"You're right." She had no idea what _trend_ meant.

"You know," he said, as he reached the door. "Maybe your dad should go too. He really is more the _mommy_ type."

She giggled. "Daddies can't be mommies too."

"Actually, they could – but that's a conversation I'm going to reserve for the future."

He let himself into his living room, eyebrows raised at the thought of the sex-change operations he and Wilson would watch on Discovery Health for laughs, and made sure she slipped past, before shutting the door behind him. Wilson wouldn't be back for another couple of hours, they knew, and it was thus his job to make them lunch.

"Okay, partner, what do you reckon we should eat?"

He limped toward the kitchen, while she turned on the TV.

"We gotta make cupcakes!"

"After lunch."

And hopefully when Wilson was around, he silently added.

"Turkey sandwich with mustard!" she blurted.

"I think I can do that. I'll even throw in some of your dad's chips."

She cheered with delight, while absorbed in Spongebob. House grinned to himself, leaning into the refrigerator. He spotted a neon pink Post-it in the far left corner...

"Hey, kiddo." He grabbed the can and whipped the note off and onto the fridge door. "Think your dad would mind if I let you have his beer with that sandwich?"


End file.
